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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28405719">Midsummer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaumeise/pseuds/Blaumeise'>Blaumeise</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Foxhill [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Guns N' Roses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Foxhill universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:47:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28405719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaumeise/pseuds/Blaumeise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The second prequel to the Foxhill universe</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Foxhill [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two days before midsummer, I stopped hating myself.</p><p>I stood in front of the open wardrobe, wondering what I should wear for the celebrations, and for the first time in eight years, I realized that I wanted to look pretty. That was a bit of a problem because I never wore anything pretty. </p><p>I liked the sharp, not too feminine angles of my face, and the bright red colour of my hair, but the rest of me had gone into hiding. My dresses were all the same: baggy, in muted colours and if they weren’t covering my unwanted femaleness, they could just as well have been used to carry potatoes. </p><p>Emma Durham, the seamstress, had made them all according to the same pattern, and she had not been happy that I had refused to have my measurements taken. Her problem, not mine. The idea of stripping down to my underwear in front of a foreign person had given me shivers. She had protested and predicted disaster, but I had always been content with the non-flattering results. They did what I expected from them: hide my body from myself and anybody else in my vicinity. </p><p>Instead of addressing the all-time female question of ‘what to wear’, I took some time to analyse the not so unimportant question of why I should want to look pretty, and whether it had come all of a sudden or had been a gradual process. </p><p>There was the possibility that I had unconsciously jinxed myself, and this sudden desire to flaunt my femaleness was a result of touching a magical object or accidentally ingesting some type of potion. In that case, following up on it would not be a good idea. I had enough experience in ruining my life by the unwise use of magic to last me a lifetime.  </p><p>Next, I considered that Izzy was trying to prank me. I discarded the idea as quickly as it had appeared. Izzy was a bastard, yes, and bewitching me would not be outside his repertoire of mischief, but there was a line he had never crossed and that was taking advantage of my gender-disaster. </p><p>I sat down on the bed and thought long and hard. I didn’t like the third option at all, but I bit the bullet and gave it a rough once over: had I started to like my female version? I was able to answer this question with a definite ‘no’, and wiped imaginary sweat off my forehead. For a moment I had feared the worst. </p><p>But, and that was a huge ‘but’, when I called out to the familiar hatred, it refused to show its face. A vague ‘it shouldn’t be like this’ was all I managed to unearth. As a final test, I closed my eyes and pictured myself. The person who waved at me was still male. I waved back and promised that one day we would be reunified. </p><p>Good. Next step. I took off my clothes and stepped in front of the mirror. Seeing my naked body always left me uneasy, and I had done this maybe three times in my female life, not only because I was so disgusted by what mocked me from the other side but also because buying new mirrors was expensive. </p><p>As always, as soon as I let go of the face and moved downwards, I was unable to discover much of myself in the person who looked back at me. Today, however, I was able to admit: she was beautiful. She wasn’t the spitting image of a perfect woman, from the not so feminine face, over the broad shoulders, the too gentle swell of her breasts to her not well-enough defined waist and …, there the image ended. In an attempt to get the rest, I made a step back. Twisting around awarded me a vague glimpse of my backside, but I had to make do without analysing the shape of my legs. Who cared? Nobody would see them anyway. </p><p>To my surprise, I didn’t feel the need to smash the mirror. Instead, I thought that this person, although it wasn’t me, deserved some recognition. I dressed, sat on the bed, and wondered where this change of heart originated. </p><p>It had started about a month ago. My workweek had been especially disastrous and after sullying just another dress in the laboratory, I had put on the one that hung in the darkest corner of the wardrobe: a present for my twentieth birthday. White muslin, the powder blue lace trimming the exact shade that complimented my hair. The neckline lower than I tolerated, the waistline, too, the skirts fuller, it had been the epitome of everything I refused to be. I had never worn it and Miss Agatha had never asked me to, not even to try it. For three years it had been hidden between all the brown and dark blue and muddy green wool and cotton. </p><p>I hadn’t planned to go anywhere, so who cared that it was frilly and feminine and not what I would want to be dead and buried in? Or that it was a bit too tight where I really didn’t want my dresses to be tight? The last I had to blame on Izzy. It had taken a bit of effort to nurse him from skeletal back to his normal, skinny self, and our food had been richer than I usually bothered to make it. I would by no means call myself fat, but the additional weight was smoothing out areas that fell under the rule of the less to be found there, the better.  </p><p>Alas, it was only for a few hours, until Lucy would return with the laundry, as she had promised. The alternative would be to run around in underwear, so this was the lesser of two evils. And in the meanwhile, I had earned myself a cup of tea. </p><p>When I came down, Izzy was sitting in the kitchen, reading the newspaper. He looked up, then returned to the article for half a second, only to put the paper down and give me a look that was … appreciative. Before I had time to hit him with something over the head, he was hidden behind the newspaper again, and while I heated water, I noticed to my surprise, that I wasn’t angry. I felt weirdly flattered.  </p><p>I blamed it on the fact that my fatten-the-piglet-project had been halfway successful. Izzy was considered desirable marriage material again, who could have his pick of the crop if he wanted. When I heard Paulette Butterfield call him ‘roguishly handsome’, I almost dropped the money her sister had handed me, while the two young women giggled and watched through the window how the object of their admiration headed down the street in a dirt-encrusted coat, a ratty old hat on his unwashed hair, and a shotgun dangling over his shoulder. And he would return covered in mud and slime and other disgusting body fluids. </p><p>Yes, as far as the good citizens of Foxhill were concerned, Izzy Stradlin was back on the market. For a while, we had been the main topic of the rumour mill, but when the marriage bells refused to ring, the general attitude changed. Izzy stopped being my dirty secret and turned into my lodger. His presence became a valuable asset to the shop, mainly because pretty, marriageable daughters wasted whatever money they had on ridiculous purchases whenever Izzy was rumoured to make an appearance at <i>A. Rose’s Herbs and Spices</i>. </p><p>It was one of those phenomena I would never understand. What the hell were they seeing in him? I was the first one to admit that, while I would never call him ‘roguishly handsome’, Izzy was kind of attractive. At least if he now and then bothered to wash himself. Or his clothes. But he was still Izzy, always broke, always down on his luck, and most of all, the most antisocial, miserable recluse of Foxhill. </p><p>Once upon a time, Izzy had had quite the reputation regarding certain skills. It was part of his weird ability to never lose his way, and, yes, that included <i>that</i> way, too. Might also be helpful that sexual arousal could be read in once’s aura, so there was no faking anything with Izzy. He knew when his services were appreciated and when not so much, and it had made for a steep learning curve. But something had changed after his return. On the rare case that I saw his eye wander, it was always after somebody tall and good-looking and male. Apart from that, his love life was as exciting as mine.</p><p>I have to admit that such a development left me quite confused. I tried to remember our earlier years together, and if he had shown similar inclinations, but couldn’t say. I had been far too busy with my own problems, and as he had picked up and dropped girl after girl, I had never thought much about it when he mentioned in passing that some boy was really good-looking.  </p><p>“You know, Axl,” Izzy said when I picked up my mug and left for the library. “You look beautiful.” </p><p>“You, too,” I wanted to say. Because it was true. He was clean for a change, even his hair looked fluffy, and he had this infuriating smirk on his face. </p><p>Instead, I took the newspaper out of his hand, rolled it up, and hit him over his head, and that was the end of the discussion. But I had thought briefly about having the dress altered so that it would fit again. </p><p>And now, that I had dragged it out from under all the brown and dark blue, I thought that I had two days left and Emma Durham, the seamstress, owed me a favour.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Owning a fancy dress and completing a fancy outfit are two entirely different things. </p><p>The woman in the mirror eyed me full of disdain, and she had every reason to do so. Her white dress was a masterpiece, tailored perfectly to her body, accentuating every curve, every arch, and every swell without being the least bit vulgar. The whole outfit was rounded out by a tasteful silver necklace and pair of jade earrings. She was a beauty to behold. </p><p>Her hair, however, was piled up into a caricature of formal coiffure on top of her head.  </p><p>Never in my life had I done anything more complicated than braiding a ponytail, but then, I had thought, how difficult could it be? Now I knew why women spent half their life learning how to tame their imperfections. Miss Agatha had owned at least a hundred hairpins and about half of those were divided all over my head. The result reminded me of the women who came home from a long shift at the weaving mill. </p><p>My hair was thin and smooth and when captured in a hairpin, it remained there for no longer than three minutes. How should I know? I had used an hourglass. Sue me. I had a scientific mind. As a result, the hairpins refused to stay where they were put, too. Once the majority of hair was out, they followed gravity until they hung roughly between nose and chin. </p><p>I considered getting spray starch. Or maybe egg white. But if that went wrong, I would have to face the public looking like a failed meringue because washing and drying my hair again was out of the question. </p><p>To give me extra joy, that was the moment when somebody knocked at my door. For the fifth or sixth time. </p><p>“Axl?” </p><p>Izzy sounded annoyed. He had no reason to be because his hair would be the usual black mess, and nobody expected anything else from him. If a man showed his face like that, people called him roguishly handsome. If a woman did the same, she was a slob. </p><p>“Axl, really. I’m waiting for almost an hour now. Either you’re coming or I’m going on my own.”</p><p>“Go on your own!” </p><p>For a moment, he stayed silent, but if I had thought he would leave me alone, I had been wrong. Izzy wasn’t normally the obtrusive type. You tell him to get lost, he got lost, even if you had said it to make him ask you what was bothering you. Why did he have to change his ways that one time, when I really wanted him to get lost? </p><p>“Axl? You all right in there?” </p><p>His voice sounded a little softer, but no less insistent, as if he was worried that I had bewitched myself again and this time turned into some type of animal. At the moment, I would have preferred that. It might even be a male animal, one that did not have to think about arranging his hair to match the fancy dress he was wearing.  </p><p>“Axl?”</p><p>How bad was he at getting a hint? One might think I had expressed myself clearly. Apparently not. Instead of footsteps on the staircase – retreating ones - I heard the door handle being pushed down. </p><p>“No!” I yelled. “Stay out.”</p><p>“Oh, goddammit, wrap a blanket around yourself if you’re naked, I’m coming in.”</p><p>Blanket. I could throw one over my head, but that would leave a weird impression. Although, not much weirder than what currently was displayed. </p><p>“Axl? What the hell is …” He stood in the doorway and looked at me. “… wrong.” </p><p>And then he started to giggle. Never in my life had I heard Izzy giggle. I hadn’t even known it was part of his repertoire, but there it was. High pitched and hysteric. At least he wasn’t suicidal yet because a dark glare brought him under control.</p><p>“That’s the problem?” he asked as if it wasn’t obvious.</p><p>His voice was gentle, almost compassionate and I realized that I preferred his ridicule. </p><p>“Shut up, Izzy, just …”</p><p>“Hush.” He came over to where I was sitting and before I could slap his hands away, he started to pick hairpins out of the natural disaster the Bible considered my glory. “It’s not that bad. Just … there.”</p><p>He tossed a handful of metal onto the dresser. </p><p>“And now?” I asked. “I can start again, but it will look the same.”</p><p>“Leave it as it is.”</p><p>I gave him a dubious look. “You can’t carry it open with this type of dress.” </p><p>It was meant to display the neck and shoulders and my hair would cover about ninety percent of the lace trimming. And my earrings, Miss Agatha’s beloved jade earrings, wouldn’t be visible either. It might be easier to catch me naked on market day than having me admit it, but I had looked forward to wearing them. </p><p>“Why not?” he seemed seriously confused, but then, he was Izzy, what did he know about fashion? </p><p>“It’s just not done.” It should be enough of an explanation, I thought, but it only enhanced his puzzlement. </p><p>“Axl.” He tugged at one of my messed-up strands. “When have you ever cared about what was and wasn’t done? You look awesome. You’ll have to bring the pitchfork to keep people at arm’s length.”</p><p>Now I was the one who was giggling. The expression on Bobby Gifford’s stupid face while being pinned to the pub wall and staring at the four metal prongs on his chest, was one of my favourite memories. </p><p>“So, really. What does it matter if you’re breaking some stupid fashion conventions? You’re breaking conventions all the time, just by existing. It’s what makes you you.”</p><p>I wasn’t sure if the last one was an insult or a compliment. With Izzy, one could never be sure. He did have a point, though. </p><p>“A pitchfork will ruin my outfit,” I said. “You’ll have to carry it for me.”</p><p>“With pleasure,” he said. “Will look better with mine than having to carry your parasol. Want me to get it?”</p><p>I could have told him that I didn’t own a parasol. And even if I might not be as averse to frilly dresses as I used to, I would draw a line at dragging useless equipment around, just to keep my lily-white skin from freckling. A pitchfork, however, that was something else. </p><p>“Might also help to keep the Butterfield twins at bay.” I picked up the brush and saved what was still salvageable. I considered a braided ponytail for another minute but went with Izzy’s suggestion. My hair was awesome. Time to flaunt it. </p><p>“Whom?” Izzy asked. </p><p>“The Butterfield twins. Paulette and Suzette?”</p><p>He gave me a clueless stare. </p><p>“No idea whom you’re talking about.”</p><p>I rolled my eyes, but it was a relief. If he didn’t know who they were, he had no intentions to marry one of them. No way would I be able to be acquainted past customer-shop-owner-relationship with either Suzette or Paulette. It would put a more definite end to our friendship than three years of absence. </p><p>“They think you’re roguishly handsome.” I stood up. </p><p>“They are not wrong there,” Izzy replied. </p><p>I smacked him on his arm. </p><p>“You’re going like this?”</p><p>He looked down at himself, from the collarless shirt over the baggy pants to his dusty boots. The only thing keeping him from sudden modesty-failure were a set of chuffed suspenders he must have bought from a travelling rag-and-bone man. </p><p>“Anything amiss?”</p><p>I shook my head. And then I smiled. No, I thought, nothing was amiss with Izzy. Midsummer was an important celebration for our kind, not only because of dancing and drinking and laughing but also to look for a mate. If Izzy were on the prowl, he would have employed a minimum of care. As it was, he planned to not only take me there but, in case he was still able to stand straight, also walk me home. </p><p> </p><p>Foxhill, crowded as it was, had one piece of open space. Half of it served as the graveyard, the other half hosted fairs or festivities. We were too late to see the lighting of the bonfire, but just in time to watch Ezra McDonald, the phoenix, set himself on fire and rise under applause from the ashes. I applauded, too, while Izzy had his hands in his pockets and watched with a little frown. </p><p>There were very few opportunities when the inhabitants of Foxhill showed their true colours, but Izzy would have preferred they kept it under wraps even then. Maybe it was easier for him. As a wizard, he didn’t have any body parts that weren’t typical for humans, and he preferred to practice his abilities in secret anyway. Pretending to be something he was not, a harmless, unimportant man, came naturally to him. </p><p>Unlike Izzy, I understood how it had to feel for the more flamboyant ones in our society. I knew what it meant to hide your true self all the time, out of fear of pain, retribution, even death. I grew up that way. My stepfather had let me know from the moment my powers had twitched that exploiting them meant death. He would kill me. It was that simple. </p><p>In the end he had pretended that he wasn’t following through for the sake of my mother, when in fact he had been too much of a coward. </p><p> So, yes, hiding had been second nature to me and whenever I remembered, the pain was sharp.</p><p>One day per year everybody should be allowed to be proud of what they were, consequences be damned. But I hadn’t seen the consequences Izzy had seen and that haunted him most of the nights. He didn’t know that I had smuggled a morpheus under his mattress, an amulet used to soothe crying babies and that it was the reason why his nightmares had stopped. Eventually, in a year or two, he might find out and be all righteous fury about it, but I slept next door from him and all the nightly moaning and whimpering was annoying. </p><p>“Come on.” </p><p>Izzy took my hand and pulled me through the throng of people. His was warm and dry and I hoped he would attribute the dampness on my palm to the fading summer heat. </p><p>“Let’s fetch something to drink.”</p><p>We didn’t get far. The first to stop us was old Mr Harris. </p><p>“Miss Rose!” he exclaimed and took off his hat. “You look especially fetching tonight.”</p><p>“Thanks.” </p><p>I did my best to make it sound heartfelt because I liked the old man, despite his insistence on calling me ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Mr’. It had taken a bit of time, but by now I had drilled into almost everybody’s head. </p><p>Mr Harris had been nice even before Miss Agatha had shown mercy, when most of Foxhill’s inhabitants had not known how to react to my sudden appearance. Poor himself, he had asked me to come by for a bite to eat whenever he spotted me on the street, and each time I had taken him up on the offer, he had treated me with his usual, formal politeness. More often than not he had provided my only meal of the day. </p><p>Unfortunately, Mr Harris made a fuss about my looks on a normal day. Today, he would be unstoppable when I would have preferred to have people not notice my sudden change in style. I needed to get used to it myself before I would be able to deal graciously with peoples' reactions.  </p><p>“Miss Agatha, God rest her soul, would be so proud if she could see you like this. The most beautiful girl of all of Foxhill.”</p><p>I gave him a sharp look. Mr Harris was on the cusp of senility, and sometimes he forgot that Miss Agatha was no longer with us. Just as he tended to forget that I wasn’t fifteen anymore. </p><p>“She would have been,” Izzy came to my rescue and pulled me a little closer. </p><p>Normally that would have gained him a shove, but today I had no complaints. I felt … vulnerable might be the word, and having Izzy to hold on to was welcome. He seemed to feel it because he kept me close after we had wished Mr Harris an enjoyable evening.  </p><p>“Oh no, the Butterfields,” I groaned. The sisters, in matching dresses, came into our direction, blond hair piled up on top of their heads in a way I wouldn’t have managed with the help of both, starch and egg white. How did they do it? Should I ask them for advice? It would be a valuable lesson in humility. </p><p>“Who?” Izzy asked. </p><p>I hit him on the arm. “Stop playing dumb. You know who they are.”</p><p>Izzy smirked. “I might.”</p><p>He steered us onto a course that made us stay clear of the twins, and then he did something he hadn’t done since that first time he had asked me out, when we had both been fifteen and he had been under the impression that his roguishly handsome charms were working on me: he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. Last time I had boxed him onto his nose, told him that I was a boy and suggested, if he couldn’t keep his grubby hands to himself, it might help to thrust his thumbs – both of them – up his ass. He had laughed, had stuffed his hands into his pockets and that had been the beginning of our friendship. </p><p>Today, I should have done the same. Instead, I leant into his embrace. The rumour mill would be up and running again. </p><p>“I start to think you are the one who needs the pitchfork,” I said. </p><p>“Huh?” </p><p>We had reached the vendor tables and before Izzy had a chance to waste his meagre funds on societal conventions, I got our drinks. It was one of the things I liked about Izzy. He was depending on my charity, but it hadn’t driven a wedge between us. </p><p>While he did earn a little money from his new business, he was still pretty much a kept man, and he could accept it without considering it as a threat to his masculinity. I didn’t mind paying for his upkeep and he never made fake promises about how he would step up to his part soon enough. We were past the point where we tried to save face in front of each other. </p><p>“All those women. The Butterfields for example.”</p><p>Izzy rolled his eyes. “They’re stupid cows. If they manage to find half a dozen working brain cells between the two of them, that would be a lot. And even if I were interested, whom should I pick? They look identical and are both equally dull.”</p><p>“But they’re not the only ones.” </p><p>“Who else? Miss Murphy? Yes, she likes to say stuff like ‘if I only were fifty years younger’, but I suppose she knows her chances with me are limited. Although …” he scratched his head. “They say with age comes experience and her house is bigger than yours.”</p><p>I pinched him into his side and hit bone. I still discarded the idea to add more fat to our diet. I refused to ruin my figure because Izzy couldn’t be bothered to take care of himself. </p><p>“There’s …,” I tried to come up with a name but drew a blank. No surprise, I had to worry about enough as it was. My hair for example. Or the frilly dress that showed off my ass and my breasts, and which made people stare at me and make compliments in passing as if I was an overly bedizened girl on her first ball. I couldn’t keep a running tab of Izzy’s admirers at the same time. </p><p>There was … this dark-haired girl who always smiled at him. One of the countless Parkers. Millie or Minnie. Although, she was only ten, so maybe not fully on the market yet. And Izzy had a soft spot for her, said he sometimes dreamed off a little girl who looked similar. He gave her sweets now and then, so maybe that was the reason she kept smiling. All right, I scratched Millie Parker off the list. But there were … others. </p><p>“You know who I mean.”</p><p>“No, I don’t,” Izzy replied. He sipped his beer. “Come on, let’s have a look at the artists.”</p><p>Mr Stradlin had been a travelling soothsayer, and as a result, Izzy had spent a huge part of his youth on fairs. He was always curious to see the different acts, and so we ate candied fruits, drank beer, and watched the attractions. Acrobats, sword swallowers, fire breathers, there even was a soothsayer. I was tempted to pay him a visit, but Izzy shook his head. Four years since Mr Stradlin had died and Izzy never let on that he was still hurting, but that didn’t mean anything. He guarded his feelings like a dragon his hoard. One better stayed away from coming too close, or one risked serious burns. </p><p>To my surprise, I forgot about my appearance and started to enjoy myself. Neighbours and customers stopped to change a few words with me, and not only to compliment me on the dress. It was strange, but also gratifying. I hadn’t noticed before, but people talked to me the way they used to talk to Miss Agatha. As if I was some kind of establishment that had meaning to them. As if they were happy to see me. As if they were proud that I was a part of Foxhill. </p><p>This was my first midsummer after Miss Agatha’s death. The year before I hadn’t been able to deal with all the cheerfulness and stayed home. It was also the first midsummer since Izzy’s return, and suddenly my hair didn’t matter anymore, and neither my dress not even being male or female. Was I the man in a woman’s body, the freak, the failure? Yes. But I was so much more than that. I was Axl, I was A. Rose from <i>A. Rose’s Herbs and Spices</i>. I was the witch of Foxhill, and most of all: I was me. </p><p>Izzy gave me a funny look, as if he knew what was going through my head. Maybe it showed in my aura or maybe he noticed it from a change in posture. I stood straighter, I realized, my body relaxed under the arm around my shoulders and then I did the unthinkable and slipped my own around his waist. So what if the rumour mill would be running overtime? Izzy Stradlin was my best friend, it was the first midsummer after his return, and all I wanted to do was be here with him and enjoy the night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The best tool to put pushy admirers into their place is a pitchfork. If that doesn’t go well with the outfit, a good, solid kick into the balls will do, too. </p><p>Izzy had gone to empty his bladder. I was sipping my own beer and held his mug in the other hand when Bobby Gifford rolled his two hundred pounds of muscles on a straight line into my directions. </p><p>“Hey, Rosie,” he said. </p><p>I ignored him but knew right away that it was useless. He was about as pleasant as a cockroach infestation and just as long-lasting. On closer observation, I might prefer cockroaches. I had had more inspiring conversations with insects than I had ever had with Bobby Gifford. </p><p>“Where’s your protector?” he continued. “Couldn’t keep his hands off you all evening and then he leaves you to be picked by the next man? Good thing it’s me coming to your rescue, huh?”   </p><p>He was so close, I smelled alcohol on his breath. </p><p>“Pretty dress. Didn’t know there was much of a woman inside you.” </p><p>He stared at my breasts, which suddenly felt huge and offensive. Under normal conditions, I would already have given him a piece of my mind, but here, dressed up in the frilliest dress one could imagine, I wasn’t sure if my usual methods of self-assertion were still working. What if I wasn’t only looking like a respectable woman, but as helpless as one, too?  </p><p>While I had wasted time fretting about my perceived weakness, Bobby Gifford to come close enough to touch me, and he took my lack of resistance as permission to move forward. </p><p>“Come, I’ll show you a good time, Rosie,” he said, and grabbed my upper arm. </p><p>“Hands off,” I snarled. </p><p>Beer spilled out of Izzy’s mug and sullied my dress. </p><p>That was the reason why women always had to be under somebody’s protection because assholes like Bobby Gifford never accepted a ‘no’ as an answer. </p><p>That was also the moment when, I decided, to hell with rules and conventions. I may be wearing a frilly dress, and two petticoats, and a necklace and earrings and I might have agonized for hours over my hairdo. But as I cherished my ability to move freely, I had put on a pair of practical boots under all that fabric, and one of those found its way directly between Bobby Gifford’s legs.</p><p>He groaned and doubled over and I lifted Izzy’s mug – it was empty anyway - and smashed it onto his head. </p><p>At that moment, I realized that I was ready to lose my virginity, but I had no time to follow up on that thought and relegated it to later.  </p><p>I was just about to let the second mug follow when somebody grabbed my raised arm from behind. I whirled around, ready to ram my knee into the newcomer’s nether regions, but caught myself at the last moment. </p><p>“He’s done,” Izzy said. “Let him live.”</p><p>He was kind of right. Bobby Gifford lay curled up in the high grass behind the soothsayer’s tent. </p><p>“Good job,” Izzy said, and let go of my arm. </p><p>“My dress is ruined.” I pulled the skirt away from my legs and inspected the damage. </p><p>“Want to go home?” </p><p>“What, because of a dirty dress?”</p><p>I looked around and noticed that a small crowd had gathered around us. </p><p>“Well done,” somebody said and slapped my shoulder. </p><p>“Finally,” another one added. </p><p>“Are you all right?” a concerned voice asked. </p><p>“Axl’s fine,” Izzy said. “He’s got everything under control.”</p><p>That was the point, wasn’t it? Control. I had never felt in control of anything. As a boy, my stepfather had controlled every aspect of my life. Then the spell had hit me and the last constant, the one thing that would never change, that nobody could take from me, was gone, and I had feared that the rest of me, my personality, my character, the knowledge of who I was, would follow. </p><p>I had spent years denying what had happened, had done all I could to keep the change from consuming me. It hadn’t worked. Step by step it had crept into my life and I had feared that with every inch I failed to fight off, I would lose another inch of myself. </p><p>Today I had not fought, but given in, and while it had been … not as horrible as I had feared, I had worried that my personality would follow my outfit. Being a woman came with certain expectations and I had no intentions to fulfill any of them. But what if resisting became too much? Would I eventually give in because it was easier to admit defeat than remaining who I was? What would be left of me? </p><p>Yet here I stood, wearing the most feminine dress I had ever owned, having allowed Izzy to lead me around like his lady-love, and it hadn’t emasculated me in the least. I had still been able to give Bobby Gifford what he deserved. If anything, it had been easier, for we had both made the same mistake. He had seen the dress and just like me, had assumed my personality would match the outfit. </p><p>Looks like he had been wrong. Looks like I had been wrong. I felt more in control than I ever had in my life. And all of a sudden, I realized, that most of the restrictions I had imposed on me were made up by myself. I was fed up with them.  I would no longer deny myself what life had to offer. On the contrary, I would experience it to the fullest. </p><p>The next point of my agenda was: sex. Not courtship, not romance, not love, none of those silly emotions which were supposed to make up a woman’s life. No: sex. The thing men got all the time and women weren’t supposed to care about. I was a man. I wanted a slice of the cake. And if I couldn’t get it by the use of dick and balls, then I would get it by applying whatever means were available to me. </p><p>I took Izzy’s hand and tucked. I needed a moment away from all those people, and after brief consideration, I headed for the little path that led up to the cliffs. Izzy came along without questions, just trudged behind me like a dog on a lead. </p><p>I still held his hand as I marched on and I liked the curl of his fingers around mine. A reminder that I didn’t have to look back to see if he was following me. </p><p>After a few minutes, we reached the bluff. It was a popular place and here and there people sat in the short, sandy grass, talking, eating, drinking, laughing. Kissing. No, I hadn’t come for the latter. I needed to sort my thoughts and make a plan of action. </p><p>I didn’t have to worry about dirtying my dress any further, so when I found a place a bit away from the others, I sat down and stared at the last beams of light over the ocean, trying to collect myself. Izzy plopped into the grass next to me. He stretched out his legs and leant back until he rested on his elbows. </p><p>“You were awesome,” he said. “I was just returning when you kicked him in the balls. A sight to behold, if I ever have seen one.”</p><p>“Sweettalk comes naturally to you, huh?” </p><p>We sat close enough that our arms were touching. </p><p>He grinned. “I remember my last attempt to sweettalk you. I can probably thank God that you just punched me on my nose. I cherish my balls too much to try again.”</p><p>I thought about it and decided, that, no, I didn’t want him to sweettalk me. I wasn’t in love. I wasn’t yearning for a man in my life, settling down, getting married, raising children. None of that. I wanted to find out what this body I had despised so much, had ignored and castigated, was capable of. For that, I needed a man, or at least parts of a man, the only one I trusted with such a delicate matter, was Izzy. </p><p>“I want to know what it feels like when somebody … ehm… touches me,” I said. </p><p>He looked at me, a little curious, but didn’t seem to get the hint. </p><p>“Sex,” I added, to make clear what I wanted. </p><p>“Uhm,” Izzy made. </p><p>“No romance or courting or shit like that,” I hastily added. “I just want to know how it feels.”</p><p>“All right.” Izzy sat up and lit a cigarette. I stretched out my hand and he let me have a drag. “Shouldn’t be too difficult to find somebody. Just … “ </p><p>He cast me another look, even more hesitant this time, as if he expected a kick in the balls the moment, he finished the sentence. I gave him the cigarette. Smoking always calmed him down. </p><p>“Just what, Izzy?”</p><p>“It’s not my business, I suppose, but … you’re pretty inexperienced. Take care you pick somebody who knows what he’s doing, yes? I wouldn’t want you … wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”</p><p>I held out my hand for the cigarette and we passed it back and forward for a while. I had hoped he would offer. </p><p>“What about you?” I asked. </p><p>“Me?” He took a deep drag and slowly blew out smoke. “I don’t know. Looking for a girl seems too much bother at the moment. Chat her up, take her out. Can take ages until you get as much as a hand under the skirt. Not worth the trouble, you know?”</p><p>He was not normally this dense, but in his defence, he wasn’t used to drinking anymore. Maybe two drinks were enough to addle his brain. Although, most of the second one had ended on my dress, which left him with one and a half at maximum. At this level of intoxication, he should still be able to grasp simple concepts. </p><p>“What I’m asking is,” I explained with all the patience I managed to bring up this late in the evening, after two beers and kicking random people in the balls. “Would you do it? For me?”</p><p>“What, find a man for you?” He looked at the fading sunlight while I started to wonder if maybe I had been mistaken and he was this dense. Then he pursed his lips and blew smoke at the horizon. “Shouldn’t be so difficult. I’d have to ask around a bit, find out who … uhm … comes with a high satisfaction rate.”</p><p>“No!” I said before he could take the idea and run. “I am asking if you would to it. Yourself.”</p><p>His head whipped around. Eyes wide open he stared at me. No answer. Goddammit, I would have to draw him a picture. </p><p>“Would I?” he swallowed smoke and coughed violently. “Would I … take you to bed?” </p><p>“That’s what I’m asking.” </p><p>Had the opium destroyed his brain for good? I hadn’t taken it into account so far, but it would explain quite a few of his weirder actions. </p><p>“You said I looked beautiful. Earlier today.” </p><p>Great. Now I sounded whiny. ‘You said I looked beautiful, why don’t you like me anymore?’ Suzette Butterfield might come up with such a line! Maybe my outfit was finally messing with my brain matter. </p><p>“You do,” he said. “And not only today.”</p><p>“Then what’s the problem? I’m not asking you to marry me or anything. It would be just … that.”</p><p>“There isn’t ‘just that’.”</p><p>I had forgotten how stubborn he could be. Of course, here I was asking him to do a single, small thing for me, and he had to play hard to get. One might think he was the virgin, not me.  </p><p>“You had ‘just that’ with dozens of girls,” I reminded him. “In case you have forgotten.” </p><p>Maybe it was too much bother today, but it definitely hadn’t been then. </p><p>“Axl!” </p><p>Izzy sounded desperate. Like he was trying to let me down gently. It was an outcome I hadn’t taken into consideration, mainly because being desirable was one of the more annoying side effects my personal brand of horror had to offer. Was Izzy immune? He was not only a wizard but one with unusual, highly complex abilities. That would explain why we were able to be friends without my … tempting allure getting into the way. Unfortunately, it also ruined my plans for the night. </p><p>“That’s it?” I asked, forgetting that I hadn’t said anything aloud. “You’re not feeling the spell?”</p><p>“I do,” Izzy said. He sighed and took another drag. “From the first day we met. And every day we’ve spent together.”</p><p>“No, that … it hadn’t yet expressed itself when we met.”</p><p>“It was there,” Izzy said. “Faint. In the back. Took me a while to realize what it was.”</p><p>“How did you find out?” </p><p>I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, that Izzy with his otherworldly perceptiveness had felt it before anybody else. </p><p>“When we were together, I wanted nothing more than make you mine,” he said. “But when I was back home, the need was gone. That’s not how attraction works. Only alternative: it had to be a spell. And from then, it was easy to resist.”</p><p>Yesterday, I would have been happy had Izzy told me that I was easy to resist. Today, it was almost an insult. </p><p>“Why do you want me, all of a sudden?” he asked. “You never did. Is it … maybe you just wish for love and I’m handy because I’m already there?”</p><p>I snorted. “I told you, I don’t want romance. I don’t want a relationship either. I want to …” Oh God, I had to explain it to him. I wasn’t ready for that. Nobody would ever be ready for that, come think about it. It was one of the things that were always done but never discussed. It was the reason why I sold more after-sex potions than before-sex potions. </p><p>“Is it because women don’t enjoy it?” I finally asked. “You think I should better not do it at all?”</p><p>That’s what people said, after all, that a woman only agreed to sex to either please a man or to have a baby. Maybe it was true. Or maybe only very few, aberrant women felt arousal, the way I had felt all those years ago when I had allowed Izzy to read my aura. The flashes that sometimes hit me and that I quenched before they had a chance to gain hold, they might just be a leftover from my male days. Nothing I was supposed to feel. Maybe with time, they would completely go away.  </p><p>“That’s nonsense, Axl,” Izzy said. “You should know that. I mean you … wait.” Suddenly he turned around to face me. The cigarette dangled between his fingers, forgotten. “You do … touch yourself, right?”</p><p>“I don’t have anything to touch anymore, remember?”</p><p>Sure, before day zero I had done what every boy did, no matter how hard the retributions rained down if one’s stepfather grew suspicious. That part of me was gone and I was left with a gaping nothing. What did he suggest, that I stuffed random things into my vagina? </p><p>“You do,” Izzy said. And then he yelled because hot ash dropped onto his fingers. He quickly shook it off. “All right,” he then said, all hesitation gone. “If you’re at that level of ignorance, then no way in hell will I allow some lecher to traumatise you for life.”</p><p>“Huh?” Now I was the one who got confused. </p><p>“I agree,” Izzy said. “Don’t make me repeat myself because I might develop second thoughts.”</p><p>I could have told him that right now I was the one developing second thoughts. What was he even talking about? Oh well, I would find out. </p><p>“Good.” I stood up. “Let’s go, then.</p><p>“Oh, no, no, no.” Izzy grabbed my hand and pulled me back down. “We’re not doing it today.”</p><p>“But…”</p><p>“We do it my way or not at all.”</p><p>I glared. Why was he so difficult about it? Wasn’t it what all men wanted from me? Shouldn’t he jump at the opportunity? </p><p>“So, we’ve finally reached that point, huh?” He grinned at me, but there was nothing lecherous about it. A hint at suggestiveness, if at all.  “You’re making me work for my keep.”</p><p>I boxed his arm and he laughed. </p><p>“First, did you even take that potion of yours? The one that keeps you from getting knocked up?”</p><p>“I … no.” I hadn’t been thinking about it, so of course, I hadn’t used it.</p><p>“Doesn’t it take a few days until full effect?”</p><p>“Yes.” Oh God, I was just as stupid as all the other stupid girls I berated on a regular basis. </p><p>“There you’ve got your first reason.”</p><p>“All right,” I admitted grudgingly. I hated it when Izzy beat me in my own field of expertise. </p><p>“Second. I will not just take you while you think of England.”</p><p>“I would never think of England,” I said. “Why would I? I will think of …”</p><p>I needed to find something to think about, I assumed. Something to take my mind off while Izzy would … I didn’t want to think in too much detail about what he would do. I knew, of course, I wasn’t that ignorant. Didn’t mean I liked to picture it in great detail. I just wanted it to … happen and be over, and scratch it off my list.  </p><p>“That’s the point. To be honest, I would prefer it if you did some … explorations on your own at first.”</p><p>“Like what?” </p><p>He did want me to stick random stuff into myself? What would that help? </p><p>“Axl!” Great. Now he was whining. We were pathetic, both of us. </p><p>“It’s gross!” I said. “Believe me, I checked.” I had, once or twice. Maybe only aberrant women got aroused, but it had taken quite a bit of willpower to keep my body from going down that route. “It gets … soggy.”</p><p>“Good,” Izzy said to my abhorrence. “Then everything is at least in working order. Put your fingers where it gets soggy and just … feel around a bit. When I’m ... elsewhere,” he hastily added, as if I would pull up my skirts and start … exploring. </p><p>“I can’t touch that! It’s … disgusting.”</p><p>Now he looked worried again. Awesome. I had been right. It was not the way it was supposed to be. Izzy’s girls probably weren’t dripping out of their vagina, but the sap stayed where it was supposed to stay. Inside. Lubricating the way and not … everything else. </p><p>“Are you sure you want me to do it?”</p><p>I nodded. </p><p>He scratched himself behind his ear while pulling his lips into the weirdest shapes. I knew what that meant. He was about to tell me something and tried to find a way to do so without hurting my feelings. For example, that my body was malfunctioning. </p><p>“You are aware that this might destroy everything? Our friendship?”</p><p>Now, that was a change of topic if I had ever heard one. Weren’t we talking about my physical dysfunction?</p><p>“Why should it?”</p><p>He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s what people say, isn’t it?”</p><p>“You don’t even want me like that,” I said. “Like … a wife or something?”</p><p>Now he looked definitely horrified and while it was on the one hand insulting, it was what I had expected. It was what I had counted on. </p><p>“You’re my friend, Axl,” he said softly. “Can we leave it at that?”</p><p>“Hey, it’s not like I get up in the morning and yearn to put my hands onto your pigeon breast. Or feel sudden impulses to write poems about your roguish handsomeness.” </p><p>“Thank God,” he muttered and now I was offended. </p><p>“So, what should change between us?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Izzy replied. “I’ve never done it with somebody I genuinely cared about. Might change nothing, might change everything.”</p><p>Maybe I didn’t feel offended after all. </p><p>“You don’t have to, if it’s so abhorrent to you,” I muttered, just for the sake of muttering. </p><p>Izzy flopped backwards and laid sprawled out in the grass. </p><p>“Axl,” he groaned. “You sprang this on me out of the blue. Give me a bit of time to get used to the idea. It’s not abhorrent. You know that. But I have to think about it because of the spell… I can resist it pretty well, I think, but that might be because I have a lot of practice in not letting it get to me. Now you want me to give in. What if it’s … don’t know … overwhelming?”</p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>I hadn’t thought that far. Izzy’s control around me was one of the reasons why I trusted him to take me through the paces. </p><p>“How does it feel?” I had often wondered about the exact effect. </p><p>“Depends.” He sat up again. “You really want to know? You’ve never asked before.”</p><p>He was right. Izzy knew me better than I liked, it seemed. I had preferred not to think about the spell, but over the last days I had understood one thing: I wouldn’t get rid of this body or of the attraction it caused. If I wanted to make my peace with it, I had to understand it better. What did it want? What did it need to be happy? Maybe I was doing it all too fast, but it’s the way I was. Whenever I got hooked on something, I took it to extremes. </p><p>I nodded.</p><p>He lit another cigarette. “When I’m angry,” he said after a few drags, “I want to just … own you. Take you, push you down, and dominate you. Make you see that you have no choice but to submit.”</p><p>I swallowed. Maybe I should delay my experimentations until I had found a way to deactivate at least that part of the spell. I was ready to take big bites here, but I would be in a pretty vulnerable position, and having a man feel like that while I couldn’t fight him off, might be a bit more than I liked to chew on. </p><p>“Should I apologize to Bobby Gifford?” I asked, only half-joking. “If it’s the spell that makes him act like that?”</p><p>“Don’t even start,” Izzy said. He sounded genuinely angry. “He got what he deserved. Because when I get the need to be a total asshole, all I have to do is leave the room and stay away from you until it fades.”</p><p>“What about when you’re not angry?”</p><p>He smoked down half the cigarette before he answered, until I wondered what kind of desire he might come up with that was worse than what he had already depicted. </p><p>“Then I want to lay you down and show you what you’re denying yourself. I want to make you feel so good that you drag me back to your bed the moment you set eyes on me.”</p><p>He flicked ash onto the ground and quickly extinguished the spark that caught in the dry grass. </p><p>“Does it fade, too?” I asked. “When you leave the room.”</p><p>“Yes.” He still wasn’t looking at me. “It’s the spell Axl. It’s there when I’m with you, and leaves me when I’m not.”</p><p>“Is it because you like boys?” I asked. </p><p>It was a topic that had never been brought up between us. I wasn’t sure if Izzy was ready to have it out in the open. But somehow, I wanted him to know that I knew and that it wouldn’t change anything between us. </p><p>“I don’t like boys,” Izzy said when he had finished the cigarette. “I like men.”</p><p>Then it was a good thing, I thought, that I was one.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is debatable who of us is more stubborn, Izzy or me. It’s the reason why we rub each other the wrong way all the time. It’s also the reason why we get each other in a way nobody else ever will.  </p><p>I can only assume what I mean to him. </p><p>Izzy likes his lovers sweet and mild-mannered and with just enough bite to stop them from being boring. This should be enough of an explanation for why a snowy day in hell had a better chance at coming to pass than a love affair between the two of us. But none of those sweet, mild-mannered lovers he has taken over the years truly got his darker side To understand that you had to have one yourself. </p><p>I can only assume why he stayed with me over all those years, but when I do, I suppose it’s because, while not as pitch black as his, I do have a dark core myself. </p><p> </p><p>I brewed a fresh batch of the forbidden potion the day after midsummer and took the first dose right away. The next one, if I wanted the effect to keep, would be due in five days and then every five days thereafter, but I wouldn’t need any of those. I would do it one time, understand what sex did to me, and forget about it. </p><p>To my disgrace I have to admit: I forgot about it a lot earlier. It was a busy week at <i>A. Rose’s Herbs and Spices</i>. Izzy was out most of the time to solve some minor ghoul problem at the central graveyard and each evening he came home covered in slime and grime. As grooming was not his strongest selling point, I avoided spending more time than absolutely necessary in his vicinity. </p><p>One afternoon, I sat in the library and read a book. Or rather started at the pages. I thought that, although I did have Izzy, maybe I should still get a cat. It would be nice to have somebody around who took some pride in body hygiene. </p><p>Sometimes I wondered if Izzy and the devil shared common ancestry, for I hadn’t finished that thought when the door opened and he entered, freshly washed, his hair still slightly damp, and dressed in clothes that were too clean to have suffered through ghoul hunting. </p><p>I gave him a nod and returned to my book, expecting him to pick one himself, but instead, he sat down next to me on the sofa. We did have the couch and we did have two additional armchairs, so there was no reason at all why he should crowd me the way he did. I glared at him and shifted a bit to give him space. </p><p>Izzy followed. I slammed my book shut and glared at him. He was only an inch away. </p><p>“Goddammit,” I snapped. “What kind of childishness is this?”</p><p>He raised his eyebrows. “It takes five days, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“For you to form a sentence that makes sense? Yes, that’s the average duration.”</p><p>“For your potion to take,” he replied. “If I’m informed correctly.”</p><p>Oh. That. I counted back and he was right. We were on day six. </p><p>Apparently, I had been silent for too long because he continued. </p><p>“You can retract. It’s all right.”</p><p>Great. Now he thought I was a coward. </p><p>“You want to go back on it?” I raised my chin in defiance while begging silently that he would say ‘yes’. “You can if it’s too much.”</p><p>Izzy pulled his lower lips between his teeth. He had very pretty lips. The rest of his face consisted of firm, strong lines and was completely at odds with his soft, expressive eyes and mouth. </p><p>“No,” he said. </p><p>Damn. He had more guts than I did. Looks like I had to pull through, too. </p><p>“How…”</p><p>I stopped when he touched my face. I knew Izzy’s hands inside out but never had I felt them on my cheek. </p><p>“You don’t have to do stuff like that,” I said. “I’m more interested in the technical part.”</p><p>He tilted his head a little, but his hand not only stayed where it was, his thumb rubbed over my cheekbone. </p><p>“Let’s go upstairs.” I stood up abruptly and marched ahead, not because I was eager to get him into my bed – that idea had slightly soured over the last days – but because I needed a few moments to compose myself without Izzy fingering my face. </p><p>“We should undress, I suppose,” I said as soon as he had closed the door behind himself. </p><p>“No,” Izzy said. </p><p>“No?” All right, technically I wouldn’t have to undress. He could just get my skirts out of the way, but it would be a lot more comfortable if I at least got rid of the dress and a few layers of underwear. </p><p>“Not so fast.” Izzy sat on the bed and patted the mattress next to himself. “Come here.”</p><p>I plopped down next to him, doing my best to not make things sappy. I would not be able to pull through if he started all this romance stuff his girls were so fond of. I wanted this cool, clinical, matter of fact. Unfortunately, Izzy wasn’t having any of it. As soon as I sat, his fingers were back, on my cheek, my lips, under my chin. </p><p>Oh. The last one had apparently happened because I had tried to look away, and now he had two fingers hooked under my chin to turn it back into his direction. </p><p>“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, and, dammit, who would have known that his voice could turn silky smooth like this? </p><p>“What for?” I asked. </p><p>“Because it’s part of it.” </p><p>I wanted to ask more questions, not only to stop him … all right, mainly to stop him, I needed at least another minute to think this through, but then it was too late and Izzy’s lips were pressed against mine. </p><p>It felt … unfamiliar. This was the first kiss of my life and whatever I had expected, it wasn’t this. I closed my eyes, trying to go back to cool and scientific and analyse what was happening. His lips rivalled his voice where silkiness and smoothness were concerned, and when he parted them a little and let the tip of his tongue brush over mine, I had to admit, that it didn’t feel all that bad. </p><p>He pushed a little, and automatically I moved backwards, but he held me in place with a hand on the back of my head. </p><p>“Shh,” he whispered, but he removed his lips from mine and brushed them against my ear instead, pulled my earlobe between his teeth and bit down. It sent a surge of heat right down to my belly. And a bit lower, if I was honest. There it was again. The feeling I wasn’t supposed to feel. Any more of this and I would start dripping, and Izzy would be disgusted and …</p><p>I had no time to finish that thought because Izzy had two hands and the second was coping a feel of my breast. </p><p>‘Don’t scare the roes,’ I wanted to say and the image made me giggle hysterically. </p><p>Izzy pulled back for a moment, watching me quizzically as if searching for signs of impending madness. </p><p>“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies,” I recited, waiting for him to join in on the joke. “Don’t scare them or they might run away.”</p><p>If anything, he looked more disturbed. Izzy was not well versed in terms of the bible, and, let’s face it, the Song of Solomon is not often part of Sunday mass. </p><p>“Forget it,” I said, but I felt … less insecure.  Joking with Izzy was familiar territory. Maybe we could joke our way through this and laugh it off afterwards. “Just … go on.”</p><p>He had removed his hand for the duration of my temporary insanity, but now it was back. My corset was one of the lightly corded French versions, a lot more comfortable and flexible than the English torture devices, but it was firm enough to ensure that the roes remained oblivious to the pursuit. </p><p>“May I get you out of this?” he asked and fingered the neckline of my dress. </p><p>“I can…” I reached backwards for the hooks, but he caught my hands. </p><p>“Let me,” he said. “Turn around.”</p><p>And, voilà, my insecurities were back the moment I was no longer able to see what he was doing. Izzy, the bastard, took his time. It was a simple dress, made to be put on and off quickly, but he dawdled as if this was fun to do. When he was finally, finally done, and the dress slipped down my shoulders, he turned me back and continued to unhook the corset. I really could have done that myself. What was he doing? Unwrapping presents? </p><p>Fabric and more fabric pooled around my hips and by the time Izzy had gotten rid of it all and reduced me to drawers and chemise, it was time for dinner. Did it always take this long? How did people manage between work and family? He tugged lightly at my chemise, casting me a questioning look. </p><p>I shook my head. Having nothing but a thin layer of silk between my skin and Izzy’s probing fingers was bad enough. I didn’t feel ready to look at what lay beneath. The day after our … agreement, I had tried to follow his advice and familiarize myself with my body, but somehow, I had been back to square one and unwilling to look at it. I had postponed the whole ordeal to another day and conveniently forgotten about it. Now I had to pay the price. </p><p>“Can I keep it on?” I asked when he stopped. </p><p>Izzy pursed his lips and considered. “For now,” he said and I was at the same time relieved and dreaded the moment when ‘for now’ would be over. </p><p>He touched my breast again and this time I did feel it. Oh yes. He started at the bottom, pressing the pad of his thumb into the crease below, then turned his palm upwards so that his thumb was replaced by his little finger. He closed his hand and I expected him to squeeze, but he didn’t, just lifted the weight a little. The moment when his thumb brushed over my nipple, another surge, stronger, hotter, more demanding, hit me. I gasped and bit my lip. I’m sure my eyes were wide open in shock. </p><p>Izzy repeated the movement and watched my face. His mouth was slightly open and his tongue flicked out to lick over his lips. </p><p>“You like this?” he asked and then he closed thumb and index finger around the nipple and pressed them together. </p><p>“I’m … I’m…,” I tried to warn him that if he kept this on, there would be a mess between my legs, but before I had the time, he took me by the shoulders and laid me down. </p><p>“You’re getting moist,” he said as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He stretched out next to me, still fully clothed while I was about as dressed as Eve before her sudden cravings for fresh fruit. “That’s what you wanted to let me know?” </p><p>Couldn’t he at least normalize his voice? Did he have to exhale the words the way he did cigarette smoke? Slow, deliberate, and relishing every moment of it? </p><p>He was busying himself with my breast again, and, goddammit, how was he doing that? Was there a direct line from my nipples to my vagina? His hand moved downwards and beneath my legs, parted my drawers, fingered through pubic hair and … what the hell?</p><p>I had expected him to push into me, prepare me for the whole reason why we were doing this, which was, after all, not playing with my nipples, but getting his dick into me. Instead, he just toyed around down there, amused himself with my gasps and wriggles and twitches, until I produced fluid like a dairy cow. Now I knew why the girls were after Izzy all the time. Dear God, yes, I knew.</p><p>Then, when I thought that I was not only able to deal with his attentions, but enjoy them, he took my hand and moved it … down there. </p><p>“No!” I pulled back. </p><p>“Axl.” He ceased all joyful activities, pushed himself up on his elbow and looked down on me. “You didn’t … try out yourself, did you?”</p><p>“I can’t,” I breathed, hoping he understood without me explaining any further.</p><p>Izzy, the bastard, waited for me to continue. </p><p>“I just … I tried. But I … I don’t want to. It’s …” It’s not me, would have been the right explanation. </p><p>Izzy eyed his hand, which lay on my belly. I wanted it to go back between my legs, but had the sinking feeling, it wouldn’t</p><p>“I really don’t think you’re ready for this,” he said. “If you can’t look at yourself, and can’t touch yourself, then, really Axl, then nobody else has business doing it.”</p><p>“I want you to do it,” I said. And I did. Somehow. Desperately. “Look, you don’t have to bother with all … this.” I made a vague gesture at myself. “Not that I don’t appreciate it,” I hurried to add, “I do, really, but you can just … do it.”</p><p>Izzy chewed on his lip. One day he would bite that thing off. Then he shook his head. Great. I had blown it. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and I wondered if he had to fight off the spell in order to stick to his ‘no’. </p><p>“I will…,” he finally said. “I will make you come.”</p><p>He looked at me as if he expected any confirmation. To make him happy I nodded without pointing out that I couldn’t come anymore. Nothing to ejaculate with, right? Just weird waves of lust that would swash over me without ever leading to some kind of climax. </p><p>“But you have to help me.”</p><p>I nodded again, not sure what he expected me to do. He reached for my hand again. </p><p>“No…,”</p><p>“Yes, Axl. You don’t have to strip. You don’t have to make any decisions. You just follow my hand with yours. If you can’t do that, we call a stop here and now.”</p><p>I was short of yelling at him that, fine, we could end it, but the fact was, my insides were still tingling and when I didn’t think too much about how the body that experienced these sensations looked, then it felt good. </p><p>“All right” I offered him my hand. “Do it.”</p><p>I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind, but it wasn’t working. Izzy took my hand and moved it between my legs. I touched hair first, dampness, and then all the folds of skin I refused to waste more time on than perfunctory hygiene demanded. Again, he did not push into me. Instead, his fingers frolicked around the periphery until I thought, any more of this and I would come up with my own biblical metaphors. As I had promised, I overcame my revulsion and followed his explorations. </p><p>“A little more to the front,” Izzy said, and moved my hand, and then, all of a sudden, the jolts became stronger, faster, bled into each other. Izzy’s hand closed around mine. He took my index finger and pushed it onto something a little firmer than the rest, something swollen, something I hadn’t know was there. When he eventually let his own hand travel backwards, I stayed where he had led me, rubbed, pressed, did whatever I could to gain friction. </p><p>“Good,” he whispered into my ear. “Just like that.”</p><p>His own hand stayed a little behind.  I felt one of his fingers push into me but was too far gone to be more than startled. Right now, it was not important. I was busy keeping the tension up, keeping the waves rolling over my body, got lost in the sensation when all of a sudden, the base of Izzy’s hand pressed down on mine and reality crashed around me. </p><p>I did not scream or anything like that, but I’m pretty sure that I made some undignified gasps and moans. When the flood that had pulled me under ebbed off, I opened my eyes and Izzy lay next to me, stroking my belly. </p><p>“Good?” he asked. </p><p>I nodded. </p><p>He kissed my cheek and sat up. </p><p>“No!” I reached for his hand, the one he had just been between my legs, the finger he had pushed into me. “Stay. Please.”</p><p>He nodded and laid down again, still fully clothed. I kept his hand between mine while I still felt phantom sensations of my body contracting in never-ending waves around Izzy’s finger. </p><p>+++</p><p>The next morning, I was late to open the shop. Breakfast, mine and Izzy’s, stood untouched in the kitchen, and when I finally had time to eat, it was around lunchtime, I found a note on my plate. </p><p>“Back in two”</p><p>Two what? I thought. Hours, months, years?</p><p>In the end, it took two and a half days, but then Izzy was indeed back, dusty and sweaty and with a book that he tossed onto the counter. </p><p>“One of my contacts finally came through,” he said. “Page 129.”</p><p>I opened the book and looked at the spell. My heart beat faster. </p><p>“It’s not the exact counterspell, but I think it might be worth a try.”</p><p>“Definitely,” I said and read through the instructions again. “Absolutely. This might be…”</p><p>“Don’t get your hopes up too early,” Izzy said. “Might be not what you’re looking for.”</p><p>“Might not,” I agreed, keeping my voice level, but goddammit, did I hope it was. </p><p>It took me three days until I felt sure enough to perform the spell. I locked myself into my laboratory, got the ingredients together and brewed the potion. Drinking it, however, took a lot more courage than I had hoped. I went to bed right afterwards, but, of course, I was unable to sleep. Without sleep though, the potion wouldn’t work and I was short of calling Izzy in for another round of sexual education, just to take my mind off the whole thing. </p><p>Instead, I followed his advice and tried myself. It wasn’t as overwhelming as the last time, but it felt nice and good and almost right for as long as I did not think about what I was doing. And it relaxed me enough to fall asleep, if not for long. I woke up maybe an hour later, alert, aware of where I was and what I had done. I didn’t dare open my eyes. Or move a finger. Leave alone touch my body or, heaven forbid, turn on a light. Instead, I just lay there and breathed in, out, in, out, trying to find out if anything felt different from the inside. I couldn’t discover any changes. I was still me, felt like me, thought like me. </p><p>I came to the conclusion that it hadn’t worked. I sat up, flicked the lamp to life, and looked over my body. </p><p>I was male.</p>
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